


A Bulletproof Heart

by saintberry



Series: Bulletproof [1]
Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 13:13:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8057776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintberry/pseuds/saintberry
Summary: She is only beginning to notice. Her features move into a frown – and then her small body jolts. The force of it makes her take a step backwards. And then blood blooms across her dress. And time resumes again.Vicbourne. Sometimes it takes nearly losing somebody to realise you can never let them go.





	A Bulletproof Heart

**Author's Note:**

> soooooo. here is the most randomly dramatic af vicbourne fic you will read this week, tbh. BUT. there is method to the madness. pinky promise.

It’s been a week since the costume ball, a week since the orchids. A week since their discussion of Leicester – since he ruined the refusal he so painfully delivered that day at Brocket Hall.

It has been a week they’ve spent like any other – going through her papers in the morning, riding out together in the afternoon. The silent companionship between them has returned – perhaps this time with an undercurrent of something more. An undercurrent he knows he cannot allow to continue.

The queen must find a husband. A mere companion will not do.

But he’s so tempted to pretend for just a little bit longer.

While their week has been routine, today is more unusual – the house abuzz to prepare the queen for an outing. She has a speech to make at lunchtime, another monument to unveil.

He hadn’t intended to accompany her, but she’d looked at him with those eyes, said, “You’ll be coming, too, Lord M?”, and he was helpless to refuse.

He has always felt helpless to refuse her.

They sit beside each other in the carriage as they leave Buckingham House, waving at crowds as they pass. So sheltered back in Kensington, she still delights in observing the public, making comments as they pass. She points out a particularly tall woman, a cherub-faced baby, a man with an extravagant beard.

“That woman looks like Uncle Leopold.”

The corners of his mouth twitch up in amusement.

“Perhaps your uncle is living a double life, ma’am.”

She laughs loudly then – that smile stuck on her lips that she has always reserved for him. He has wrestled with himself about pushing her to find a husband – but moments like this always send little shoots of pleasure through him.

It was not too long ago that they stood under Elizabeth’s painting and discussed her companions.

If this is what it is to be a queen’s companion, he is sorely tempted to see her reign alone.

They arrive at the Thames half-an-hour later – doubling back on themselves to pass as many people as possible. Tension have run high in the country for months now, problems with the Chartists, questions over the queen’s clear favour for the Whigs.

He doubts that his place at her side is going to endear her to anybody – but she smiles and waves at them, and he begins to wonder how anybody could resist the warmth that radiates from her.

Her guards are there to help her from the carriage, though he declines the offered hand himself. A crowd has gathered, held back by the queen’s soldiers. As she moves to stand beside whatever it is she is opening today – he believes it is a statue of her uncle –he steps back to stand with her guard, nodding to them in greeting. He always enjoys watching her from the side-lines.

While the crowd chats and the queen greets who he assumes is the sculptor, he can’t help but admire how beautiful the day is – the sky blue, the Thames green, a gentle breeze drifting through the air. It has been a while since sunshine has brought him joy – many more things seem to bring him joy now.

He is brought out of his thoughts a few minutes later, when the queen steps forward to speak, silence falling, all eyes on her. He notices when she looks his way – responding with an encouraging smile, a nod of agreement. Her voice was so quiet when she first greeted her lords. It is much louder now – crystal clear, a contrast to the river churning behind her. Pride swells in him, strong as its tide.

He has heard her speech before, of course. Made edits when she presented him with a draft, listened to her as she paced up and down the throne room, practising. She is about halfway through – about to read one of his favourite lines – when a movement catches his eye.

And then everything happens in slow motion.

A man reaches into his pocket. Lord Melbourne watches his hand move inch by inch, watches the fist that forms hidden in the cloth. The flash of metal, the tightness of his fingers wrapped around the handle. The resolve in his eye.

Lord Melbourne has taken half a step closer to the queen when the trigger is pulled. The explosion whips through him. The guards have yet to react. Melbourne feels as though he is moving through treacle, reaching desperately for the queen.

She is only beginning to notice. Her features move into a frown – and then her small body jolts. The force of it makes her take a step backwards.

And then blood blooms across her dress.

And time resumes again.

There is panic and shouting – the guards step forward, throw themselves on the attacker. Shots are fired into the air. The crowd is forced backwards, screaming women and crying babies pushed away.

The queen is standing still. She is quickly surrounded, but her eyes find his – confused, dazed, dreadfully pained. Her small hand is stretched out towards his – he takes it as she falls, crumpling down on herself. Somebody behind her catches her before she hits the ground.

His heart is beating wildly, panic and terror seizing him. He kneels beside her, squeezing her small fingers in his.

“Your Majesty?” he asks, his voice added to the chorus of those asking if she’s okay.

Her eyes are drifting shut now, her grip on his hands loosening.

“Lord M…” she murmurs – and then her head lolls back, slumped in the arms of Lord Alfred.

He is left watching as her guard issue orders, follows without thinking as the queen is lifted into a carriage, Lord Alfred still holding her. A messenger is sent ahead – and then Lord Melbourne finds himself bundled into another carriage between a number of soldiers, an even heavier guard meeting their party halfway there. It only occurs to him then that perhaps others are in danger, too.

Buckingham House is abuzz once again, the atmosphere different this time. Servants are running around, people are clawing at the gates for news. Tension and panic run through him as he enters. He is led into a room with the rest of the queen’s entourage, lords and ladies, some tearful, all sombre. A minute later, and the Duchess of Kent enters, looking stricken.

Her eyes are wild, cheeks stained with tears, skin red and blotchy. She searches the room for a moment, before she finds who she is looking for – approaching him, clinging to his arm.

“My Drina. What happened to my Drina?”

He tells her as calmly as he can, pretending that his voice isn’t shaking, that his legs don’t feel unsteady. All around him are ashen faces – concerned looking lords, scared looking servants. The queen has been shot. There is nothing to be more serious about. But there is a reason, perhaps, that the Duchess of Kent chose him – a deeper terror they share together.

She is not just the queen to them, after all.

And he has seen his children die, too.

The wait afterwards is agonising – the Duchess continually exiting the room and returning, walking herself in circles, throwing herself down onto couches. Lord Melbourne confines himself to one corner, a wall nearby to support him should he crumble.

He feels so close to crumbling.

It is only fifteen minutes at first – that is what the clock tells him, though he feels that it has to be lying. A servant comes in and addresses the Duchess, who nods, and cries harder. Lord Melbourne’s hand comes to rest on the wall at that sight – fear gripping him so tightly he feels he can’t breathe. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if the queen doesn’t survive.

He has already lost his son. Buried his daughter. Said goodbye to Caroline. He cannot lose her, too.

He cannot _survive_ losing her, too.

The Duchess approaches him shakily, taking hold of the hand he has offered. Her grip is tight, her fingers cold.

“She is still alive.” Relief washes through him – he almost feels lightheaded at the sensation. “They are trying to stop the bleeding. Oh, Drina, my poor Drina.”

He walks the Duchess over to a seat, before approaching someone else to pass the news on. He doesn’t notice who he’s speaking to – doesn’t care. Once the message has been passed on, he sits down heavily next to the Duchess.

He thinks this must be the first time they have truly understood each other.

The next wait is the most painful. He sits there stiffly, the Duchess sobbing beside him, figures moving around them all the time. He vaguely notices a servant offering him a drink, refuses as politely as he can manage. It is only when he feels the atmosphere in the room change that he looks up properly – watching as the Duke of Cumberland enters the room. His features are carefully schooled to an expression of seriousness, but rage coils hot in Melbourne’s stomach.

He is the heir to the throne, and the queen is a mere annoyance to him. Every ounce of anger and fear Melbourne feels must be equalled by Cumberland’s glee. He is surprised that he has dared show his face here before the news is certain.

The clock tells him that is has been another hour when a servant girl rushes in, the Duchess standing up to speak to her. It is not a conversation he is invited into, but Melbourne finds his feet lifting him, too, standing at the Duchess’ side.

“The queen is stable. The bleeding has stopped, and the wound has been stitched. She is resting.”

The Duchess’ tears are from relief now, her hand clasped over her mouth – Lord Melbourne fixes his gaze on the ceiling, thanking whatever god it was that kept his queen alive. He can feel tears pricking in his own eyes, banishing them with a shaky breath.

As the news spreads the crowd in the room disperses, the Duchess running off to be by her daughter’s side. Lord Melbourne longs to join her – longs to see that the queen is alive. Instead, he remains where he is. His eyes find Cumberland as he leaves the room, feigned relief plastered on his features. After a minute or two, Melbourne moves to the window to watch his carriage pull away.

Good riddance, he thinks.

He is soon the only person in the room. Servants come in and out, wait on him, offer him drinks, books. A meal is placed on a table in front of him – he picks at it half-heartedly.

Darkness falls, and he knows he should go home. But he finds himself rooted to the spot, unable to leave, unable to get too far away from her. He sits there and relives it all – the firing of the gun, the blood on her dress, the vacant expression in her eyes as she let go of his hand. He feels shaken to the core. He needs to see her. He cannot be reassured before then.

It is nine o’clock when Emma finds him, shutting the door behind her as she enters.

“Oh, William,” she murmurs, clasping his hands in hers. He remembers himself long enough to duck his head, kissing her hands softly. “They told me you were in here. Your face is white as snow.”

He nods. When he speaks, his voice is raspy.

“Have you heard anything?”

Emma squeezes his hands gently.

“I went in to see her for a moment. Not for long, the Duchess is sitting with her. She was still asleep. Pale, but breathing. The doctors believe she will recover.”

He has heard it all already – but something about hearing it from Emma is more of a relief, his body slumping a little. He is more exhausted than he realised.

“She is young. And she is the queen of England. She has to recover.”

There is that knowing look in Emma’s eyes again, concern mixed with something else. He hasn’t quite put his finger on that something else yet.

“She will. Are you to stay tonight? I will ask one of the servants to make up a guest room for you.”

It is not appropriate. He knows it isn’t.

“Please.”

Emma leaves him, and a servant finds him half an hour later, telling him his room is ready. A boy has been sent for his clothes, he is told. He simply nods along to all that is said.

The bed is unfamiliar, the sheets silkier than the ones he is used to. He fears he will not be able to sleep – every moment of that day on loop in his mind. But weariness overtakes him, worry and fear exhausting him, and it takes only a moment for him to surrender to sleep, broken and fractured as it is. He wakes throughout the night, lies there and feels panic gripping him again, but he turns over and forces himself back down – forcing sleep to take him.

He is still exhausted when he wakes the next morning, stretching stiffly before dressing in the clothes placed at the end of his bed. He watches the courtyard out of his window for a moment, staff bustling around busily. The queen is hurt, but there is still a palace to run.

He fastens the buttons on his jacket slowly, fingers slipping a few times. His whole body feels numb. Before he opens the door, he takes a deep breath – he is the Prime Minister, and it would do him well to act like it.

A servant is waiting for him outside of his room, a young boy, who bows quickly. Melbourne nods to him.

“Have you news of the queen?”

“I have heard she is awake, sir. May I guide you to breakfast?”

He nods his assent, and is taken to a room where Emma and the queen’s other ladies are eating breakfast, a low murmur of conversation running around the room. Emma places a gentle hand on his arm as he sits down beside her.

“The queen has woken up?”

She nods as a servant pours him a glass of juice.

“Yes. Apparently she is weak, but alert. The doctors are less worried now.”

“Thank god.”

“You can relax now, William.”

He feels queasy as he eats, still shaken, but finding himself ravenous. The servants have prepared more food than necessary – eggs, toast, jams, meats. He wonders if they’re overcompensating.

Emma watches him as he eats, her own breakfast already finished. He pretends not to feel her eyes on him.

Once he has finished, she leans in to him.

“By the way, I have heard the queen is asking for you.”

He blinks for a moment, a slight frown on his face. The second she says it, he is itching to get out of his chair.

“You didn’t think to open with that?”

“No. You look ready to bolt, and I thought you should eat first. Starving yourself will not help the queen recover.”

No, he thinks. But it will help him to.

It feels an eternity before he is outside the queen’s door, the maze of staircases and passages nothing but a nuisance. The thought that a mere door is all that is separating them now is infuriating to him, desperate to see her as soon as possible. Every second has his fingers itching to open the door himself.

A servant goes in to grant him permission to enter, and then he is being announced, bowing lightly to the Duchess – still at her daughter’s side – and to the queen.

She is lying on a mound of pillows, covers drawn up to her chest. He is reminded how young she is – so small, so fragile. Beneath her nightgown, he can see heavy bandaging over her shoulder, the white a similar shade to her skin. Emma was right – she is pale. But there is a gentle smile on her lips, and life in her eyes.

He has never been so relieved.

“Lord M. You are awake.” She sounds cheerful, though weak. He doesn’t care – he is simply grateful she is alive.

“I am. And so are you, ma’am.”

She smiles a little more then – turning to her mother with a wince.

“Will you leave us, Mama? I wish to speak to Lord M alone.” The Duchess looks as though she has protests – Lord Melbourne has no doubt that she does. “Please, Mama?” A look is shared between them, and then the Duchess nods reluctantly, kissing her daughter’s forehead gently.

“I will be outside.”

The queen holds onto her hands.

“Perhaps you should sleep, Mama? I fear you have not so far. You must be exhausted if you have stayed awake for all the night.”

“How could I sleep, with my Drina so hurt?”

Victoria’s fingers stroke her mother’s hands reassuringly.

“I am okay. And Lord M will look after me. Sleep, Mama. I will be here when you wake up.”

The Duchess turns to look at him, distrust in her eyes once again.

“I will take good care of the queen, ma’am. I have been told I have an excellent bedside manner.”

She turns back to Victoria, kissing her again.

“Call for me if you need me.”

“I will, Mama. Thank you.”

The Duchess departs reluctantly, the closing door muffling her footsteps. The queen watches her retreat, before turning her eyes back to Lord Melbourne. He moves forward then – sitting in the chair beside her bed, the wood creaking as it takes his weight.

“I was told you were asking for me, ma’am.”

She nods, her fingers brushing his gently. He takes it as a cue to grasp her hand.

“I was. I saw that awful man turn his gun. I knew it was pointing at you. I was so worried.”

That was something he hadn’t noticed – raising an eyebrow in response.

“ _You_ were worried?” A slight laugh escapes him. “You had the entire palace holding their breath, ma’am.”

“And you?”

He licks his lips slowly.

“I was worried, too.”

There is that smile on her face – that teasing smile he loves so much.

“Just worried?”

“Perhaps a little more than that,” he admits. She laughs – and then coughs, her face screwed up in pain. He squeezes her hand to steady her. “And perhaps we should avoid jests until you are healed.”

“I think that would be wise.”

They are silent for a few moments, his gaze held by hers, those blue eyes he was so afraid to see the spark extinguished in. But after a while, his gaze flickers down, looking at their hands.

She is the one to break the silence.

“Do you remember my visit to Brocket Hall, Lord M?”

It is a stupid question. He remembers every agonising second of it.

“I think I can recollect it, yes, ma’am.”

“Before you were side tracked by the rooks, I was going to ask you a question.”

“Were you, ma’am?”

“Yes. I was going to ask you to marry me.”

He pretends not to notice the intensity of her eyes on him, pretends not to notice his skin tingling where they touch. His heart is pounding in his chest, apprehension running through his veins. He has come so close to losing her – pushing her away again is the last thing he wants to do. How can she ask him to watch her nearly die, and then say no to her as if nothing has happened?

“I am not sure that would have been an appropriate question, ma’am.”

“No,” she answers curtly, tapping his hand gently. He takes it as a gesture to look up, meeting her eye. “Lord Melbourne?”

He knows what is coming.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Will you marry me?”

He is expecting it – but he is still stunned into silence. His heart skips a beat, shock cursing through him. It is a few moments before he can form a sentence.

“Ma’am, I do not think – it would not be–”

“I don’t _care_ what it would not be, Lord M. I don’t. I almost died yesterday. I almost died because I am the queen. I think that is duty enough.”

“That is all the more reason for me to say no. You marrying me will only anger more people. It would be even less safe for you.”

There is the smallest laugh on her lips.

“I have already been shot at, Lord M. Do you really think I can get more unpopular with my people?”

“You seem determined to try.”

She shakes her head then, dropping his hands, letting her own move to rest on his cheeks instead. He is powerless to stop her, watching her face as her small fingers brush across his skin, tracing the curve of his cheekbones.

“I have always read in stories that your life is supposed to flash before you when you die. It did not. What did happen was that the whole world blurred, except for you. I could see nothing clearly except for you standing there, feel nothing but your hand holding mine. When I had been shot, all I had time to notice was that gun turning to point at you.”

Her voice is so sincere – so gentle, so coaxing. His skin burns when she is touching him, his hand rising gently to cup hers, stroking up her arm. He is as gentle when he replies.

“More people will try to hurt you, and it will be because of me.”

“Let them try. Nobody will take me away from you.”

Her blue eyes are focused on him, soft, understanding. He is so tired – still so worried, still so shaken. Still so afraid that his queen will be hurt. He has lived the last eighteen hours preparing to lose another love of his life.

“Please, Lord M. When I was hurt, you were all I wanted. You are all I will ever want. Please.”

She is begging him, and he fights so hard to say no.

“Your majesty… it cannot be. Parliament and the people would not allow it. More people would try and hurt you, and _I_ can’t allow that.”

“I don’t care. I care that I love you. That I could not imagine loving anyone but you.” He feels as though he is hit by a bullet this time – but this a bullet that heals him. The only thing shattered by this bullet is his resolve. “If you love me, too, you will say yes. If you love me, too, we will find a way. Together.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, squeezed shut. And then he turns his head, lips brushing her palm.

He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to refuse her.

“Okay,” he whispers, “Okay. We will find a way.”

Her eyes widen then – surprise on her face turning to delight.

“You’ll marry me? You will?”

He sighs a little, taking her hand and kissing.

“Yes. I will.”

Tears spring in her eyes, and he finds himself smiling despite himself. It will be another scandal to drag his name through – but the beaming smile on her face makes it more than worth it.

He notices that her cheeks have started to develop some colour, pink with pleasure. There is something else on her face, though – a puzzlement that he frowns at. She notices, and replies.

“I cannot lean forward. It would hurt too much. I would hug you, otherwise.” She thinks for a moment, before pushing back her covers. With a wince and a hiss of pain, she moves herself to one side of the bed. “Sit beside me?”

He nods, rising from his chair to sit beside her. After a moment’s hesitation, he moves his arm to wrap around her, and she settles against his side. He can’t see her face properly anymore, but he can feel that she is smiling.

“I have thought about us doing this for a long time.”

“Well, you are very persistent, ma’am.”

She looks up at him, her nose wrinkled.

“You can’t call me that if you’re going to be my husband.”

A thrill shoots through him at that – still in disbelief that she had convinced him to agree. But it is a fair point. Such formalities will become unnecessary.

“What would you prefer?”

“Victoria.”

Her answer is firm, and he finds himself playing with the ends of her hair, nodding slightly.

 _“Victoria_.” He tries it softly, lips quirking into a smile at the sound.

“Victoria and her Lord M.” It is his turn to wrinkle his nose, raising an eyebrow at her. “What?”

“You intend to call me Lord M still? It seems a little formal.”

“Well, what would you prefer?”

He thinks for a moment, before shrugging.

“William, I suppose.”

She nods.

“Victoria and her William.”

It sounds unfamiliar from her, so foreign on her tongue. But he likes it.

“Indeed.”

She leans against him, warm against his side, and he can’t remember the last time he felt a peace like it. Happiness, too, of course – but there was much more to worry about, much more to struggle through. He had agreed to make their lives so much more difficult.

“Lor – William?”

She breaks into his thoughts, turning his head to find her eyes on him.

“Yes?”

“There is something else I have thought about us doing, too.”

“And what is that?” He has an inkling, but the question – the feigned politeness, the refusal to assume – is a force of habit. It is one he resolves to rid himself of – a husband can be familiar with his wife. Though he has to force himself not to add ‘ma’am’ to the end of the sentence – a habit he is worried he will struggle with more.

“I have thought about us kissing.”

“Have you indeed?” She nods eagerly, and he feels his mouth tug into a smile. He feigns thinking about it for a moment – before allowing the hand not around her to find her cheek, his turn to brush his fingers over her skin. “Would you like for those thoughts to become reality?”

She doesn’t need to respond – and he’s not certain she’s able to. Her eyes are already focused on his lips, and she shivers as his thumb brushes hers gently. His heart is beginning to quicken in his chest, but he leans in slowly – wanting to remember every second of this.

It is with gentleness that he finally presses their lips together. They slide together clumsily at first, their matching smiles making it difficult, but he feels her fingers curl around his neck, and he is spurred on. He is tempted to deepen it – tempted to kiss her until she is breathless. But he is aware that this is the first time she has kissed a man and pulls away all too soon, leaning their foreheads together, his breath shaky nonetheless.

Regardless, he has plenty of time to teach her. And he thinks she’ll enjoy these lessons even more than their previous ones.

“This is more than I imagined,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, to his cheek, to his jaw. “You are more than I imagined.”

He laughs a little at the sentiment.

“I think you are not the only one taken by surprise.”

With a smile, she settles back down into his arms, her palm splayed against his chest, over his beating heart.

“Emma told me the orchids meant to express a secret love.”

“Mm?” He is playing with her hair – watching the contentment on her face.

“I am glad it’s not a secret anymore.”

It is a moment before he answers, thumb brushing over the curve of her cheek.

“I’m glad, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> like i said, so stupidly dramatic. but i've been dying for a fic where they end up together in that life, and i needed realistic motivation for Lord M to be swayed. so there's that.
> 
> tbh i'm kind of in love with this verse and already thinking about the logistics of everything, so -- there's a chance this could develop into more. lmk what you think!


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